Among The Scyth: The Origin of Russell Edgington
by scythianslavegirl
Summary: The story of Russell's human existence and how he came to be a vampire.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: The original idea for this story came from an interview with Denis O'Hare on the genesis of his character (Russell Edgington) where he stated: "(Russell) is an ancient Celt. The Celts originated in the Carpathian mountains and then started migrating West in search of the bed of the sun." In my research, it was plain that the early Celtic and Scythian cultures were heavily intertwined. One article states that "tradition suggests that the Celts left the Sea of Grass (the plains of the Ukraine and Kazakhstan) in a dispute with the Scythian confederacy, of which they seem to have been members" ( home/thefaery5/) late in the second millennium B.C. I thought it would be interesting to start Russell's character within the confines of the Scythian culture and show the impetus of his break from the culture and movement towards the West. 

Chapter 1: The Fallen

Russell (who was known as Arpoxais to his tribe) held his bloody hands up to the sky. The sun had begun its descent towards the distant peaks of the mountains in the west. The waning light bled crimson across the sky as if mourning the events of the day. In that moment, Russell felt that the whole world held nothing besides blood and death. He was exhausted from his efforts. They had come to nothing. Life seemed like it would never be more than a ceaseless ocean of loss. He looked down at the body of the fallen warrior. He had spent the last hour trying to stifle the bleeding from ghastly wounds and calm the man's hysterical mortal ravings. This is the way of the world, he thought. Everything ends in death and men cannot wait to hurry it along its course.

His private musings were interrupted by the calls of a small band of warriors who were coaxing a weary horse up the hill to where he knelt among the fallen. The men unloaded yet another wounded comrade from the back of the horse. The horse raised its head, the loose leather bridle heavily encumbered by enemy scalps. The spotted gelding whinnied loudly as the men laid the bloodied youth before its front hooves. "Arpoxais! A little help here," one of the warriors, Scylas, called to him.

Russell looked up and was struck by the fine silhouette Scylas cut in the fading light of the blood red sky, which was now muted by streaks of pink and yellow. He was a tall man, especially among the Scyth, who were not generally known so much for their height as for their compact physical power. The warrior stood straight, his legs surprisingly unbowed, despite the fact that he had first been placed on a horse at the age of two. By the time he was ten years old, he was a better rider than most cavalrymen of other nations would ever dream of being.

The lives of the Scyth revolved entirely around their horses. They constructed yurts to house their prized mounts and protect them from the frigid winter weather. They never stayed in one place long. Instead, they travelled the vast steppes in order to feed their herds. Scylas was the chief warrior of the Paralatae, the Royal Scyth, who were ruled by Ishpakai.

Russell's breath caught as he drank in the sight of Scylas. His long brown hair was held back with a simple leather thong. A couple long, sweaty locks had caught the wind and blew across his handsome face. His chest was bare and he bled from a long, superficial slash across his bare chest. It was probably self-inflicted as a pre-battle sacrifice to Papeus, the father god. The wound served a pragmatic, as well as spiritual purpose, since nothing heightened the senses more than a small dose of pain. His long trousers, tightly tucked into felt boots, were likewise stained with dirt and blood and clung to his powerfully muscled thighs. The only other implements he wore were his gorytus, the small curved bow and barbed arrows made to be fired from the back of a horse, which were strapped to his thigh, along with his sagaris, a curved battle axe.

"Arpoxais!" Scylas called again. The other two men took a step back from the chief warrior. No one ever dared to raise their voice to an enaree. But Scylas had little use for the half-men who made up the special class of healers, except when he needed their skills for himself or his men. He could sense Russell's attraction to him and it made him uncomfortable. But Russell could not act on the secret love he harbored for Scylas, even if the young warrior had shared an inclination towards him. To be enaree was to be alone, eternally celibate. It was preparation to be a pure vessel to channel the will of their many gods. And, in evil times, to ward off the evil spirits who were wont to plague them.

Russell came to his calling at the same young age that most boys within the tribe began their training to be warriors. He was acquainted with healing herbs, potions, and esoteric knowledge, but had never known the intimate embrace of a man or woman. It was his duty to deliver children into the world, but his only knowledge of physical passion came from observing slaves copulating behind the sheep pen or a warrior claiming a female captive. At the age of forty-two, the erotic dreams that had tormented him in his youth had mostly passed, but he still felt himself stir when he was in close proximity to Scylas.

Russell sighed heavily and lifted himself from the tinder dry, yellow autumn grass. He turned to signal two old Medean slaves, a man and a woman, trustworthy as old dogs who the Paralatae had held in bondage since a battle fought decades before. "Come now and place this body with the others," Russell commanded.

The grey-haired couple jumped at his signal and hurried away from their work of filling large, carefully preserved and cleaned bladder sacks with water. Russell brushed by Scylas and the other two warriors without a word. He chose to ignore the slight breach of etiquette in favor of attending to his latest patient. But it was not his habit to let such a slight pass by unacknowledged a second time.

Scylas held the position of chief warrior among the Paralatae and was engaged to be married to the chief's eldest daughter, Tabiti. It was an alliance that would assure his place in the line of succession, but none among the Scyth dared to cross an enaree. Not even proud Scylas, with all of his good looks, status, and fighting skills, would ever directly challenge Russell's authority. Enaree ranked apart and above the strict hierarchy of the Scyth people. If an enaree was angered he might call a curse down upon the offender or perhaps the whole tribe. Worse yet, the enaree might choose to desert his tribe, leaving them without a healer and vulnerable to the influences of malevolent spirits.

Russell examined the youth laying before him on the ground. The boy's arm had almost been severed from his shoulder by the blow of an enemy's battle axe. Russell guessed that the boy had been fighting on the ground and his attacker had struck him while galloping past. The boy's lips were blue and he was unconscious. Russell became aware again of the warriors hovering over him, watching him work.

"The battle is over then?" he asked.

"Yes. A great victory. Tonight we will drink to the shame of the Auchatae!" Scylas answered. The other two nodded their approval, eager in their anticipation of the night's festivities.

"Take him to my yurt. I will need more medicines than I have on hand here if I am to save him," Russell said.

"Will he live?" Scylas asked. His tone was detached, unaffected. But Russell sensed the conflict roiling beneath the surface. The boy, Oricus, was the only son of Ishpakai. Scylas was ambitious and the chief's son could one day threaten his position. At the same time, Scylas was a good man who seemed to genuinely care for the boy. And Oricus, for his part, followed his idol, the chief warrior, around like a stray foal. Russell looked thoughtfully at Scylas, weighing his answer. In turn, the warrior's eyes studied Russell's guarded expression. Their eyes met in a silent challenge like two eagles fighting over the same portion of sky where neither held the advantage.

"You two," Russell addressed the other warriors. "Take him to my yurt at once. Carry him yourselves. I do not think he can withstand being thrown over the back of a horse again. I charge you with his safe transport. Stay with him until I am returned. If he stirs, give him willow bark tea. I shall be there as soon as I am able."

Without a word, the two warriors carefully balanced the weight of the youth's body between them and began the short journey to the line of yurts a few hundred yards away. Scylas snorted in derision and mounted the horse in one swift, graceful movement to plunder what prizes he might from the small battlefield. Russell cast a long look towards the base of the valley. Strangled screams from dying horses and wounded men filled the air before being silenced by quick thrusts of Paralatae daggers. And, all the while, scalps, heads, and other booty were being collected from the unfortunate invaders.

Russell looked away from the gruesome scene playing out in the fading light of the once peaceful valley. It was a scene he had seen repeated time and again after every skirmish fought over land or horses. It was as natural to his existence as the rising of the sun. Tonight, their work done, their horses, fields, and women safe, the victors would drink and boast until dawn. But, for him, the work had just begun.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Raven

Russell returned to his home in the shade of a gentle twilight. He had stopped by the low stream that bordered their encampment to wash the grime from his bare chest and arms, as well as to steady himself for the work ahead. He did not know whether he could save the boy's life. It would be a true test of his skills. It weighed heavily upon him that either outcome would have a significant impact on the small, nomadic tribe.

The two warriors who had brought Oricus to Russell's yurt stood at attention when they saw him approach.

"Has he woken?" Russell asked.

"No. He is as he was," the older of the two, a heavily tattooed warrior named Partatua, answered. The two shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Russell could tell that they were anxious to be relieved of responsibility for the wounded boy and free to join their comrades.

Russell ducked inside the spacious round dwelling, which was lit only dimly by a low central fire whose smoke escaped from a wide ventilation hole in the roof of the structure. The air was close and warm. Out of necessity, the heavy felt walls retained every trace of heat and were painted with brilliant depictions of horses, stags, and snow leopards, as well as his personal talisman, the raven. These images protected the dwelling, frightening away evil spirits, which played a central role in the superstitious minds of the Scyth. The yurt also represented a refuge from pernicious apparitions, since it was round and contained no corners or sharp edges where evil could dwell.

The thick walls also trapped the smell of blood and putrefying infection from the ghastly wound which had incapacitated Oricus. The foul odor poisoned the air and, as Russell gazed at Oricus, he doubted that he would be able to save the boy. But it was his duty to lay aside his own feelings of exhaustion and despair to attend to the task at hand. Russell stepped outside his yurt and filled his lungs with the clean, fresh air. Partatua looked at him expectantly. The flames of a tall bonfire already threw dancing shadows on the outer walls of the yurt. The celebration was about to commence and Partatua was impatient to be away.

After a few moments of silence, Russell relinquished the pleasure of the cool, crisp evening air and the savory smells of a roast that had been spitted among the flames. While the others drank and ate, he would fast and and endure the grueling process of mustering all his magic to try and undo the wheels of fate that had already been set in motion.

"You may go," Russell announced, his voice deep and solemn in the gentle night. Partatua nodded once and he and his companion turned to go. Partatua walked only a few paces before turning round.

"What news shall I bring the chief?" he asked. He fiddled absently with the shaft of one of the arrows that protruded from his gorytus. It was as close to a nervous gesture as any seasoned warrior of the Paralatae was likely to display. But Partatua knew it was not his place to question an enaree, especially without specific instruction from the chief.

Russell felt annoyed with the question. His mind was already far away, concentrating on his preparations for the night's work. The baleful look he shot Partatua, combined with a deep frown, eloquently communicated his displeasure. But Russell also sympathized with the warrior who was shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Partatua would spend his evening with Ishpakai who was sure to undone with worry, even if he would never outwardly show such weakness. Besides, answering the inevitable question now would save him the trouble of dealing with the very real possibility of the later arrival of an ill-timed emissary who might interrupt his meditations.  
"Tell him I am not to be disturbed until morning," Russell replied.

He took one last deep breath and returned to the confines of his yurt. Once inside, he opened a large chest that held his most sacred and precious possessions. He donned a cloak shot through with fallen raven feathers, which were carefully sewn into the worn felt with long strands of thread made from hemp. The cloak was almost uncomfortably warm, but he tried to free his mind from the physical discomfort to concentrate on spanning the divide to his totemic self. Around his neck, he wore a circlet of raven skulls and, lastly, he unburied his power stick from where he kept it buried, so that its energy could imbue the ground where he dwelled with its mystical energy.

With his preparations complete, he began to boil water in a cured, waterproof skin to make willow bark tea. He also retrieved his bag of medicinal herbs from the bottom of the chest. Finally, he felt ready to examine the wicked wound that was slowly strangling the life from the chief's son.

Russell knelt beside the low pallet and began to clean the wound. The blood ran dark and putrid before clearing to crimson. Ugly black lines were beginning to spread from the wound like a deadly spiderweb down the arm and across the boy's chest. Oricus was still breathing, but his chest rose and fell in an irregular and shallow rhythm. Outside the tent, a great commotion arose as the warriors made their first ceremonial toast.

In his mind's eye, Russell could see them passing around the golden ceremonial goblet, the skull of a rival chieftain which had been retooled and gilded into a drinking vessel. The act was symbolic; by drinking from the head of an old enemy the assembled warriors were reinforcing the idea that they were powerful enough to consume the fighting strength of their enemies. It was an old practice. On this night, after a relatively small skirmish with a rival tribe, it would be filled with wine. But, after a major battle, it would be filled with the blood of the first enemy killed. On more than one occasion, it had been Russell's duty to collect the sacramental blood for the ritual.

The boy stirred and muttered incoherently as Russell applied a poultice of healing herbs to the grisly wound. He was feverish and his skin was hot to the touch. Russell worried that such a high fever might have an ill effect on Oricus's mind if he managed to survive the night. He dribbled some tea into the boy's mouth hoping that the painkilling remedy would have some slight effect. Oricus twitched and moaned before falling back into a silent, drugged slumber.

Russell looked down at his large, strong hands, which were stained with Oricus's blood. He wondered if he possessed the skills needed to save his patient. It was possible that the arm would have to be amputated in order for Oricus to survive. But Russell had never performed the dread procedure. He had only heard tales from Greek merchants of the medical marvels that their physicians performed. It was the first time he had ever been confronted with such a wound that was not immediately mortal. Also, most warriors in such dire straits would be allowed to pass from the world in a euphoric, drugged haze, but Oricus was the only son of an aged chief. One son and five daughters were the whole of Ishpakai's legacy.

Russell felt hopelessly frustrated. There was no easy solution. He wondered whether the boy would die under his knife or if it would be better to let the infection slowly claim him. Even if the boy survived the procedure, what would his life be worth? A one-armed warrior would be as useful to the tribe as a horse with two legs. Russell clenched his hands in his brown, sweaty hair. He had never felt so impotent with indecision.

There was only one place he could turn to help him come to grips with what must be done. He would have to turn inward, turn to the power of his totem, the raven. Russell sighed heavily and grabbed a large handful of hemp leaves and seeds, which he threw into the smoldering embers of the low fire. In minutes, the inside of the yurt swelled with the heavy vapors released from the herb. Russell sat cross-legged on the ground and chanted. He breathed deeply, opening himself to the energies of his hallucinogenic trance.

His mind lost all track of time as he found himself perched among the branches of a high tree brazenly colored with fiery red, orange, and yellow leaves. He bent his head to preen his sable feathers and dislodged a small fly, which he presently ate, but it only whetted his appetite. He was ravenously hungry and eager for an opportunity to replenish his reserves.

He patiently watched the narrow valley as two lines of horseman approached from opposing directions. Suddenly, the lines broke and the warriors madly galloped towards each other, yelling and brandishing their battle axes. He ruffled his feathers in growing anticipation. With his keen eyes, he saw a warrior loose an arrow which found its stop in a gush of blood as it hit another horseman in the eye. The man fell dead from the back of his horse and Russell opened his wings wide to swoop down on the corpse.

The small battlefield was bedlam. Russell tried to turn his head to see what was happening, the reason why his totem had led him to this particular moment in time, but the smell of blood and the taste of warm flesh were too overwhelming. The moment was broken when a flurry of approaching motion caught his attention. It was a bloodied, screaming man running towards the corpse waving his axe. Russell took to the air a moment before the sharp edge of the blade would have separated his head from his body.

From his aerial vantage, Russell could see that the warrior who had been running towards him was Oricus. In the next moment, he saw an enemy horseman ride up unnoticed behind Oricus. His vision clouded as he saw the man's axe deliver the mortal blow and Oricus slump over the body of his fallen comrade.

Russell came back to himself with the heavy realization that Oricus had been felled while trying to protect the body of a fellow warrior from scavengers. He felt weighted down by the knowledge that there was so little he could do to save the life of the valiant youth. His body felt heavy with exhaustion and hunger, but he knew he must press on. The knowledge he had received had imparted him with a more personal and imperative motivation, but the answer to what he should do still eluded him.

The air in the yurt had begun to clear and he could hear the first warbling songs of birds welcoming a new day. The sounds of the warriors drinking and boasting had subsided. Russell imagined that if he was to venture outside his home, he would see warriors wrapped in their horse blankets strewn around the dead bonfire sleeping off their drunken stupor. He sighed deeply, grabbed another handful of leaves and seeds as he prayed to his totem to grant him access to its prophetic powers.

As he fell deeper into another hallucinatory trance, he saw himself on the morrow, working among the bodies of the warriors who had been slain. Again, the vision took place from the aerial vantage of his totem. Russell was crouched among the bodies, beginning the embalming process when another body was brought and laid next to the others. A sad tension filled the stifling air of his yurt as he felt himself swoop in for a closer look.

It was then that his fears were confirmed. He had failed in his duty. The night spent fasting and pushing himself to his physical and mental limits had been for naught. It was Oricus, blue-lipped and white as stone. Russell buried his head in his hands as he pulled himself back to his corporeal reality.

But when he lifted his face from his hands, he saw something that made him question whether he had pushed his spiritual journey too far and actually lost himself to the Otherworld. A large man was crouched over the pallet where Oricus was laid out. Heavily muscled arms clenched Oricus tightly and were covered in strange, foreign tattoos. He was nearly naked except for a long, linen cloth that was belted around his midsection. His muscles bulged and rippled under skin the color of burnished bronze.

Suddenly, the apparition lifted its bald head and Russell could do nothing but gape at him in fear and alarm. Deep, red-rimmed brown eyes assessed him as Russell stared back, struck dumb with shock. The creature had been feeding on Oricus and blood ran down from two long, ivory fangs. Every instinct screamed for Russell to run, but he sat rooted to the spot. After a moment, when the creature did nothing, the panic subsided, the mental discipline imparted by his training returned, and Russell found his voice.

"What are you?" The question sounded stupid to his own ears, but it was all he could think to say.

"I am fear made manifest," the creature answered in a deep, rich voice flavored with an accent Russell could not identify.

"Why are you here?" Russell continued.

The creature regarded him thoughtfully, a slow smile breaking across his bloodstained mouth. "I am here because you summoned me, Raven."  
Russell gulped back his fear. There were others among his brethren who worshipped a dark god, but he had never participated in the bloody torture and horrific rites that constituted the practice of Nergal. He could not imagine that spiritual communion with his totem had conjured such an entity into his yurt.

"Are you the God of No Name? The God of Death?" Russell asked. He wondered if every word he spoke might be counted among his last.

The entity looked amused. The long, intricately carved gold earring that hung from one ear jangled merrily as he shook his head. "I am as close to a god as you shall ever hope to meet, Raven. I am Death," the creature answered.

"Have you come to take me then?" Russell questioned, trying to control the fearful tremor in his voice.

"A good question," it remarked. "But no, not tonight. Your offering shall suffice...for now."

The creature stood then. He was slim, muscular, and even taller than Scylas. He was also the most beautiful man Russell had ever seen; possessed of an unearthly radiance that made Russell feel weak with awe and fear. Russell would have put his age at no more than twenty. Without another word, the creature vanished as quickly as he had appeared. It took several minutes for Russell to recover his senses enough to be able to move.

When his blood unthawed enough to allow it, Russell crawled the short distance to the pallet where his patient was laid out. Oricus was cold to the touch and, just like in the vision, his lips were blue and his limbs were stiff with rigor mortis. Oricus is dead, Russell realized. Worst of all, two round puncture marks had appeared on his neck where none had been before. Terror overwhelmed Russell. It had been no dream.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Death

After his harrowing experience, Russell crawled to his bed. Finally, the long hours of tense exhaustion and hunger were able to claim his conscious mind. He slept fitfully, his mind tumbling through whirling images of carnage, death, ravens, and the unholy specter who had claimed the life of young Oricus. A few hours later, he awoke to the sound of his name being shouted outside of the yurt.

"Arpoxais! Arpoxais!" It was the unmistakable voice of Scylas.

Normally, Russell would curse whoever it was who had awoken him from his exhausted slumber, but on this morning, he bolted upright on the thick horsehair mattress. Throwing aside the heavy felt blanket, he cast a quick look around the inside of his yurt. He was relieved to discover that he was still alone except for the mouldering corpse of Oricus.

Russell pushed open the door flap and stepped out into the blinding morning light. He shielded his hazel eyes with one hand as he stood tall, waiting for Scylas to speak.

"The chief would see you," Scylas said. Russell thought that he looked none the worse for the long night spent drinking. In that moment, he could not help but compare Scylas with the creature who had come to his yurt the night before. Scylas was the picture of health and vigor, his tanned arms and legs accentuated by the morning light. But his rugged good looks paled when weighed against the spectral beauty of the mysterious apparition.

"I will come at once," Russell replied.

Scylas turned and strode towards the middle of the encampment where the grand yurt of Ishpakai stood. Russell followed a few paces behind, admiring the strong form of Scylas, and trying to keep his mind off the unpleasant tasks that the day held in store for him.

Scylas held open the door flap and Russell entered the spacious dwelling. The chief's yurt was easily twice the size of his own. Brilliant tapestries covered the walls and plush, thickly woven rugs covered the ground. A large central fire cast light and warmth through the dwelling and glittered off golden goblets, helmets, and the heavy chain Ishpakai wore. Russell nodded, but made no other acknowledgement of Ishpakai's women, his wives and daughters, huddled in and around Oricus's bed. They watched him intently and he could see the tears that ran down their cheeks.

Scylas entered the yurt behind Russell and strode over to take his place behind and to the right of his chief.

"Arpoxais," Ishpakai began without ceremony. "What news of my son?"

Russell took a deep breath, centering himself before sharing his burden of dire news. From the downturned, tense way Ishpakai held his mouth, Russell surmised that he had already guessed the truth. The silence drew out as Russell took in his chief, wondering if Ishpakai, in his grief, would blame him for the loss of his only son. Another doubt tugged at the back of his mind. If anyone else had the chance to examine the body there would be questions that Russell would have a very hard time answering. He had no talent for lying and the truth would surely see him tied to a pyre and burned for madness.

In times past, he had himself sat among a council of enarees charged with the solemn duty of standing in judgment over one of their own. An enaree who succumbed to madness posed the worst sort of danger not only to their own tribe, but to the Scyth as a whole. For while they occasionally battled amongst themselves, the individual tribes, the Paralatae, Auchatae, Melanchlaeni, Budini, Agathyrsi, and a host of others, were joined by a common culture and way of life. A rogue enaree who was not in full command of his senses might call down the worst kinds of evil entities and bad luck onto all the Scyth. The only way to see that the Scyth world was free of such an unfortunate albatross was cleansing by fire. Russell shuddered at the thought of such a fate befalling him.

Ishpakai regarded him seriously. He could feel the chief's sky blue eyes, unusual among the Scyth, burn into him. Russell felt himself shift from foot to foot. Nervous stammering was not his habit, but he was having trouble finding the right words to begin. The chief cut an impressive and intimidating figure. His hair was grey and his face held more wrinkles than not, but he was still strongly muscled and his vigor infused the air with a commanding energy.

"Ishpakai, it saddens me to confess that your son, Oricus, was beyond my skills to save. He succumbed to his wound in the early morning hours. He now rides in the Otherworld," Russell stated in a solemn voice. He held himself firm and resolute, willing his knees to not give way beneath him like two bundles of straw. The only other time in his life when he could remember feeling so nervous was during his final days as a young acolyte.

As was customary, he had been given an audience before a council of enarees, drawn from among various tribes, in order to demonstrate his skills and knowledge. It had been the final hurdle that had to be crossed before being accepted into their ranks. For three days, Russell did not eat or sleep as his mental, physical, and spiritual prowess were tested to within inches of what he could mortally withstand. But, he had survived and, on the other side, he had been given rank and status that superseded tribal divisions. He was part of a most sacred and revered brotherhood. It had never occurred to him that he would ever face another test of such magnitude. Worse yet, this time he was alone. All he knew was his survival hung in the balance of a game where the stakes were high and the outcome was uncertain.

In the back of his mind, he knew the creature would return. And he had no idea what that would mean for himself or his tribe. Russell cut his eyes to Scylas whose normally guarded expression could not conceal a certain bemusement. It caused him to wonder if the warrior's quick, intelligent brown eyes, unstricken by grief, had caught the signs of his uncharacteristic disquiet.  
The women in the tent were pressed together, quietly sobbing. And Russell could see unshed tears glistening in the eyes of his chief. He was anxious to be dismissed so that he could attend to the needs of the dead and the family could be left to mourn in private.

"Arpoxais," the chief began. In spite of his ruined emotional state, Ishpakai still spoke like a chief. His demeanor was a study in calm certainty, his voice practiced in the art of giving orders. "Tomorrow, we break camp. The burial grounds are three days ride from here. Make your preparations so that my son shall join our ancestors with all the honors due a warrior of my line."

Russell took a knee before the chief and choked out the next words. "It shall be done," he replied formally. But he felt as though the ground might open up and swallow him. Half a moon worth of work and only a few days to complete it. The chief might as well have asked him to search a field by moonlight for a misplaced awl. Certainly, it was partial punishment for his failure. While the chief's family mourned, he would not be granted the solace of sleep.

If the chief himself had been killed, tradition demanded forty days before his corpse would be interred. During this time, the soul of a great man was believed to hover around his corpse. It would oversee the tribe during the tumultuous period that resulted from a transition of leadership. The confusion and strife inherent in such times of change attracted evil influences and required the protection from the disembodied soul of their leader.

A chief's burial was a complicated and elaborate affair. Not only was the chief buried with everything he might need to be comfortable in the Otherworld, but many of his retainers, horses, and wives would also endure execution to accompany him on his journey. It was a logistical nightmare that was only manageable because of the time allotted between death and internment. The burial of Oricus would entail many of the same preparations, although on a somewhat smaller scale.

Without another word, Russell rose and saw himself out of the oppressive climate that hovered about the chief's yurt. The bright, sunny day seemed to mock his weary spirit as Russell trudged to his own yurt. He could find no joy in the sweet melodies of the birds, the peacefully grazing herds that were the tangible proof of his tribe's prosperity, or the breathtaking panorama of blazing colors, which looked like the gods had painted the open plains with brushes dipped in fire.

Just outside his yurt, Russell heard footsteps behind him. He turned and almost ran into Scylas. As was his custom, he stood and waited for the warrior to speak first. In that moment, he was glad for his status. Only Ishpakai and himself now outranked the heir-apparent and reserved the right to hold their silence until they were directly addressed.

"Arpoxais, I wish to see the body of Oricus," Scylas stated.  
Russell was shocked. It was highly irregular for anyone besides an enaree or his servants to deal with the dead. For a moment, he was so taken by surprise (not to mention the way that Scylas looked like a young god with the sun beaming off his healthy, tanned skin) that he almost assented to the strange request.

"What business have you with the dead?" Russell asked, his voice stern. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to see the body. He needed to keep its condition concealed until the burial ceremony.

"I want to know the manner in which he died," Scylas said uneasily. Clearly, Russell had guessed correctly that the warrior's instincts had whispered to him that something was amiss. But with all the confusion and upset, Scylas had not formed a clear plan for investigating his vague suspicions. Russell had the advantage. It was his choice to make. And while spending time alone in his yurt with the handsome young warrior was something he had secretly dreamt of, the timing was bad and he would not take such a risk. Only another enaree had the power to demand entry to examine a corpse.

"As I explained in the yurt of Ishpakai, the wound was mortal. It poisoned his blood and stopped his heart from beating," Russell answered. His tone carried a note of impatient finality and he turned to open the flap of his tent.

"But, so suddenly?" Scylas pressed. Being a warrior, he was not entirely unfamiliar with wounds and infection. He knew that Oricus could have hung on for a day or more before dying. Scylas put his hand on Russell's shoulder to stop his progress. Russell could feel his breath catch from the surge of warm heat heat radiating from Scylas's strong, calloused hand. Scylas had never dared to touch him before. No one ever dared to touch him.

Russell turned quickly, regretting that the action caused Scylas's hand to fall away, but refusing to betray his reaction to being touched by someone so desirable.

"Do you wish to be enaree now? Have you grown weary of battle? Does your betrothal to Tabiti no longer hold any charm for you?" Russell asked. His voice dripped with sarcasm and his hazel eyes burned cold. Scylas had gone too far and they both knew it.

A moment passed in silence where they both weighed the consequences of where this conversation and the events of the past day might lead. Russell, being the wiser, chose to smooth things over. He did not wish to alienate his future chief or give him reason to continue to pursue his suspicions. In the worst case, if Ishpakai was led to believe there was just cause, he could delay his plans and call a delegation of enarees to investigate the circumstances of the Oricus's death. Russell had to fight the urge to tremble at the thought.

"Come, share your wine with me, and let us enjoy the sunlight," Russell said, indicating the wine bag that hung about Scylas's waist. He sat down, cross-legged, on the dry yellow grass outside his yurt and waited. Reluctantly, Scylas sat down a few moments later and uncorked the wine skin, passing it to Russell.

Russell took a deep draw. It was good, strong Greek wine, probably procured from a band of merchants who had passed through their lands to trade during the short summer. Each Scyth tribe extracted a heavy tax, decided by the individual chieftains, from the merchants in exchange for safe passage. But the siren song of Scyth gold, as well as the rights to harvest timber in order to continue to build their trading post, Olbia, on the Southern Sea kept them coming back year after year, their presence as predictable as the seasons.

When he was done, Russell passed the skin back to Scylas and began to speak. "You are right, Oricus did not die immediately from his wounds. He had lost a lot of blood and was vulnerable to infection even when you brought him to me. I cleaned the wounds and did what I could to ease his suffering, but then I had to make a decision about how far to go to save his life."

Scylas put down the skin. His features clouded and Russell could see in his tense posture the discomfort and puzzlement he was feeling. "I do not understand. What choice was placed before you? The gods decide who lives and who dies," Scylas stated.

Russell grabbed the skin and took another drink. This conversation was highly unusual. Ever since the battle, his whole life had taken on an oddly surreal quality. He felt that he was adrift, being pulled towards he knew not what by a current he did not recognize or understand.

"I only share these things with you because you will be chief someday. Do you understand?" Russell began. He paused briefly and waited for Scylas's slow nod of assent before continuing. "From my dealings with the Greek traders, I had learned of a procedure that can save the lives of those who are mortally wounded in battle, but I have never performed it myself and there were other considerations as well."

Scylas's eyes glowed with interest, but he remained silent as he waited for Russell to continue. He felt that he was being initiated into mysteries that very few ever had the opportunity to learn about. The conversation carried a slight hint of danger as both men pondered unknown territory. Although, for Scylas, his greatest fear would be laid to rest three days hence when Oricus was buried. He was saddened by the loss and would mourn with the family, but his place in the line of succession was now assured.

"The procedure is known as amputation. It is the removal of a damaged limb in order to save the life of the person," Russell continued. Scylas took a deep, shocked breath inward. The idea of a man wandering the world minus an arm or leg was a completely foreign concept. Such a man would be an abomination with no more place or use in the world than a bird with one wing. In his mind, it was better to dispatch the creature than condemn it to misery and slow starvation.

"I knew, as I am sure you suspected, that Oricus had suffered a mortal wound and there was little I could do but try to ease his passage. But Oricus held a special place in the future of the Paralatae, so it was difficult to just let him go. I did not know if I should try to take his arm to save his life. Chances are that he would have died in the attempt. Even if he lived, I did not know if his life would be worth much. But, why would I be given the knowledge if not to use it? I struggled with performing such an unnatural procedure. So, I cast myself into a trance to try and find the answers to these bewildering questions."

Russell stopped short and studied the ground. He could not believe he was sharing this information. It was a conversation that should only take place with one of his brethren. Only another enaree could truly understand his struggle. But the need to unburden his soul, coupled with the overwhelming attraction he felt towards Scylas, overpowered his better judgment.

Beside him, Scylas nodded sagely, although he was unsure how much more he wanted to hear. His world was consumed by war, horses, and the community of his fellow warriors. The mysteries Russell spoke of were beyond his ken. In that moment, Scylas felt the weight of his future responsibilities and how they would force him to confront a much larger world where his word would carry the weight of law.

"Several hours later, when I awoke, I discovered that the gods had made their decision. Oricus was dead," Russell concluded. The two sat in silence for a moment, warmed by the good wine and the early afternoon sun. Russell took a last drink from the nearly empty skin and handed it back to Scylas. They regarded each other for a moment more, nodded in mute agreement before Scylas got up and walked away. Russell exhaled a deep sigh of relief. There would be no more trouble over the death of Oricus. His explanation had been accepted and a foundation for good dealings with his future chief had been laid.  
At the same time, he felt a pang of remorse as he watched the strong, young warrior walk away. It would probably be the only time where he would share his mind so openly with Scylas and drink good wine like they were old friends. His heart ached a little to come so close to the object of his desire only to watch Scylas return to his own separate sphere a few moments later.

However, Russell did not have the luxury of time to dwell on his sad thoughts. He had to return to his own duties, but a wave of dizziness overcame him as he stood and stretched his legs. Silently, he cursed the wine which had exacerbated his own feelings of near complete exhaustion. But there was no time for sleep as the heavy weight of the work ahead settled back on his shoulders.

Russell walked the short distance to the large yurt which had been erected to house the bodies of the dead. His two Medean slaves had been charged with maintaining a low, smoky fire to dispel any moisture from the air. The smoke and the chilly evening temperatures would keep the bodies from falling into corruption until the embalming process could be completed.

As he opened the tent flap, his senses were assailed by the dry, smoky air and the heavy, still gloom that hung about the interior of the yurt. "You may go," Russell said to the two grey-haired slaves who were almost completely hidden in shadow. Wordlessly, they arose and walked past Russell on their way out of the yurt. Normally, they bowed their heads as they scuttled hurriedly past him. But, even in the dim light, he could see the dazed look in their eyes, the slow, trudging motion of their gait.

He wondered at it only briefly, dismissing their odd behavior to exhaustion before lifting the blanket off the first body. He had his dagger in hand and a large jar rested on the ground beside him as he prepared to drain the body of its blood. But the corpse was cold, white, and hard as stone. No odor escaped from beneath the cloth. There were ten bodies in all. Terrified, Russell hurried to each one, stumbling over the edges of the pallets in his haste. Under each cloth, the bodies of the dead were the same. They had all been drained of their blood and each of their necks bore two round puncture holes. Russell fell to his knees as his legs grew weak under him. An overpowering wave of fear and panic overtook his senses before he fell unconscious to the dirt floor.

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: In order to respect the guidelines for material posted to this site, going forward, I will edit out the explicit scenes in the story. If you wish to read the unedited version, please PM me and I will send you the link. Thank you for reading.**

Chapter 4: Solace

In total darkness, Russell awoke in a pool of his own vomit and urine. He coughed, gagging on the foul taste in his mouth. His head was spinning as he sat up and wiped the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand. Looking upward, he tried to focus on the myriad of stars in the clear night sky that were visible through the smoke hole at the apex of the yurt.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see a flash of movement. It was only momentary, a shadow moving in the unformed darkness, and then everything was still. Russell rubbed his eyes and began to make out the lines of the pallets all lying in a row. In an effort to clear his head and wash the foul taste from his mouth, he uncorked the skin of kumiss, fermented mare's milk, that hung from a thong strung about the waist of his felt trousers.

The drink helped to clear his head and restore order to his thoughts. It was then that the wet foulness that soaked his trousers and clung to his bare chest overwhelmed him and he choked back the urge to retch again. There was nothing left inside him but the red, bitter taste of bile that rose in the back of his throat. Time moved in slow increments as he rose on quaking legs and stopped to center himself. The world spun before him and false points of light bloomed before his unfocused eyes in shades of color that defied description.

Russell knew he was in a bad way. The competing needs for food, rest, a bath rose in sudden urgency and demanded immediate relief. Arms outstretched, he stumbled the short distance towards the door flap of the yurt. The cool night air was a sweet relief compared to the macabre aura that hung heavy inside the yurt. He took another swig of the heady beverage and, almost of their own accord, his feet began to move one in front of the other down the familiar trail to the stream. The cluster of yurts, calmly silhouetted by the silver shroud of moonlight, were the only break on the endless expanse of the open steppes. The haunting silence was broken only by the gentle whisper of the wind through the trees and the forlorn howl of a wolf somewhere far off in the distance.

On his way out of camp, Russell observed a lone horseman, a silent sentry posted to guard against the dangers of night. No word or gesture passed between them. The rider knew him as they all knew each other: by his gait, his posture, the weary trudge of his soft leather boots; the signs unique to each individual, never consciously noted, but unmistakable in a small tribe who were intimately linked through the immutable cycles of birth and death. And likewise, although the rider was several horse lengths away and lit only by the wan moonlight, Russell knew by the way he sat the horse, legs relaxed against its flanks and chin tilted upwards toward the stars, that the lone sentry was undoubtedly Partatua, mind far afield, dreaming of honor on some distant battle ground, but confident in his ability to act quickly if the need arose. Besides, it would only be an experienced, proven warrior who would be chosen to keep vigil so soon after a day of bloodshed.

It is fitting, Russell thought glumly as he descended the gradual slope towards the stream, Partatua holds the watch for the living while I am beholden to do the same for the dead. The stream was deep and broad, but with a gentle, meandering current. On the rocky bank, Russell stripped off his soiled clothes and waded in. The water, which never warmed far above freezing during the short respite that summer provided from the brutal winters, burned cold against his naked skin.

Russell's teeth chattered and his body grew gooseflesh, but willing his body to adjust, he walked over the cold, slippery rocks until he was waist deep in the middle of the stream. He knelt down, dousing his head in the clear, chilly water, and came up shivering more violently than before. After a few minutes, the chills subsided, and he relaxed into the moment. His lean frame, long tempered by the rugged, nomadic life of his people did not suffer the cold overly long. The gentle current caressed his limbs as he mused on the sheer beauty of the cobalt sky filled to overflowing with a bright blanket of stars too numerous to count. He breathed deep, wishing that the complexities of his life could be forgotten, washed away, so that there was nothing left but peace and beauty.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he had needs other than those of his overwrought mind to attend to. The moonlight danced like molten silver on the ebony water. Russell sighed, breaking the spell of silence that held him as a willing captive in the brief furlough of serenity. It seemed to him that such brief moments of calm were always sweeter when there was little time to enjoy them. Before wading the short distance back to shore, he cupped his hands in the water, raised his arms, and allowed it to run down his body. In his mind, he composed a simple prayer of gratitude to Thagimasadas, the god of water, and reminded himself to make a proper ritual offering for the well-being of himself and the tribe during the next full moon.

When he mounted the rocky bank, he looked down at the small pile of his possessions. He could not bring himself to put the soiled trousers back on, so he pulled on his boots and tied his knife as well as the drinking skin around his waist. Normally, he would never risk walking back to camp nearly naked. It was a breach of propriety that would never be tolerated by the tribe. Modesty was an important virtue among his people. Only those with no social standing, those who were little better than animals, slaves, criminals, or war captives, ever appeared unclothed in public.

Russell knelt down and scrubbed his trousers as best he could in the brisk shallows. Once satisfied that they were as clean as he could make them, he rolled them into a ball and trudged back towards the encampment. Along the way, he took a few more swallows of kumiss, which seemed to lighten his step and kept the ravenous hunger temporarily at bay. The walk back seemed much longer than the walk to the stream. He kept a sharp eye out for Partatua and was relieved to not encounter the warrior while in his vulnerable state on the way back.

Russell looked heavenward and gave a prayer of thanks to Artimpasa, goddess of the moon, for that one small piece of luck. Partatua must have ridden to patrol the north side of the encampment, he reasoned. And while Russell did not believe that the warrior would give him any trouble, it would still be an awkward meeting at best. He walked briskly and breathed a deep sigh of relief when he made it to his yurt without further incident. But, when he lifted the door flap, Russell instantly knew that something was amiss. He had not been home since late morning and yet there was a large fire burning among the hearth stones.

Dropping the bundle of clothes to the dirt floor, he withdrew his dagger, and walked to the fire. There was no real place for anyone to hide in his yurt, unless an intruder secreted himself behind one of the tapestries or under his sleeping pallet, but Russell felt drawn to the hearth. It was foolish, the flames would give up no secrets, but neither were there any feet peeking out from beneath the tapestries.

The dagger was only force of habit, Russell knew in his bones, in the sickening wave of fear that caused him to sweat despite the heat, who had invaded his yurt. In the next moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a smooth, accented voice say, "Raven." Without thinking, Russell whirled around and planted his dagger squarely in the ribs of the monster. The creature took a surprised step back and doubled over. For the briefest of moments, Russell felt sure that he had vanquished the creature whose presence haunted the whole of his sleeping and waking hours. But somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispered that it had been too easy. There was no way he could be that lucky.

It did not take long for his dark suspicions to be confirmed. After gripping its side for a few moments, the creature straightened up, looked Russell dead in the eye, and softly laughed. Russell gaped in terror. He felt his stomach heave and his knees turn to water. His hand shot out to grasp the central wooden support that held his tent aloft. But it wasn't enough, the room began to lengthen, stars burst in a wild torrent before his eyes, and everything began to spin wildly.

Before he knew what was happening, his knees collapsed beneath him and he was on the floor retching up the meager contents of his stomach. Sharp pains tore at his sides as he coughed and spit the bitter bile from his mouth into the dirt. He gagged on the fresh air as he tried to force air into lungs that felt shrunken from panic. His peripheral vision collapsed down to the small section of floor before him. There was only the dirt, the dancing shadows cast by the fire, the pool of vomit and spit, the bare bronzed feet of his tormentor, and the crimson drops of blood that steadily fell on one of his most prized possessions, a rare rug of Persian origin, a gift from Ishpakai's father, Creusa.

Then, the bloody knife fell and landed with a soft thud on the thick weave. The blood stained the intricate pattern of red, blue, and black, almost indistinguishable among the riot of color, to become a permanent part of one of the few small luxuries Russell allowed himself. If he survived the night, no one would ever know, but he would never enjoy sitting on it before a warm fire again without being reminded of the terror he had experienced this night.

But it did not matter, as the knife fell, so did his hopes for survival. He was impotent, unable to kill or even injure the apparition who had descended upon his life like a plague. Worse yet, his attempt to dispatch his enemy had certainly sealed his fate. Silently, he prayed to the father god, Papeus for a quick death, but he trembled at the thought of what torment the creature might choose to inflict upon him as punishment before he drew a last, labored breath.

Russell closed his eyes, unwilling to gaze upon the manner of his forthcoming doom. But nothing happened. The minutes dragged on and, in every moment, Russell felt the weight of a dark and endless expanse of time drawing out before him. He thought about his life, his choices, every wayward step that had led him to this waking nightmare from which there was no escape. Finally, he could not take the suspense any longer. He made up his mind that he would not die with his head down, wretched in his anguish, groveling in the dirt like a common slave.

When he lifted his head, readying his racked body to meet death on his feet in the only place of respite he had ever known, he found himself gazing into the deep brown eyes of his tormentor. "Raven, why do you seek to anger me?" Russell was taken aback by the question. His mind immediately emptied of any semblance of coherent thought. The only images that flashed through his mind were seeing the creature dead at his feet, slain by the sure thrust of his dagger, and himself standing triumphant, free of the dreadful phantasmagoria into which his life had so quickly devolved. But he had not the courage to voice the intent so clearly demonstrated in action. Russell found himself struck mute and he lowered his eyes to hide his growing shame.

The creature grabbed his shoulders and pulled him roughly to his feet. Its touch was cold, and the strength of the finest stallion in Ishpakai's herd paled in comparison to the power of the creature that righted his collapsed form as if he were no more substantial than a pouch of herbs.

"Answer me, Raven, or perhaps I shall pull your tongue from your mouth if you can put it to no better use," the creature said, its voice cool and even.

Russell's mouth went dry and the whites of his eyes showed all round his hazel green pupils. He searched his mind for some answer, some way to assuage the creature's anger short of groveling and begging for mercy. And then from some deep reserve of strength he did not know he possessed came a sense of calm and the quiet voice that whispered the truth that his fate was sealed and his only choice lay in how he met it.

In that moment, he remembered that he was no coward, he was an enaree of the Paralatae. He would find a place among his people in the Afterworld. With his final breath, he would face the realization of his greatest, secret fears with the truth on his lips and courage in his heart. "I only meant to defend myself and my people, but I see now that you are beyond my power to harm," Russell stated, defiant even in utter defeat.

A smile broke over the creature's handsome face and its eyes seemed to assess Russell, standing naked, yet unbowed, with a newfound respect. Its hands were covered with blood and Russell watched, unbelieving, as the bleeding in its side slowed and the wound began to close.

"I knew you would not disappoint me, Raven," the creature replied. "You shall do very well."

Russell had expected anger or vengeance, but not bemusement. What could it mean? he wondered. The bottomless mystery of his tormentor's presence seemed only to deepen regardless of what actions he took to resolve it. "What are you? Why do you torment me? If you are here to end my life, then do so, and be done with it." Russell asserted.

The creature placed its bloody finger on Russell's forehead and began to move slowly downward leaving a line of blood that stopped at his lips. Russell was too petrified to swat the hand away. He felt that he was outside himself, watching the strange proceedings like a distant stranger. "So many questions, Raven. You amuse me with your curiosity, but don't worry, I shall tell you everything you wish to know. Then, you will see that you alone have no reason to fear me," the creature stated.

Russell wanted to argue. It was madness to believe that there was no reason to fear this evil spirit who walked about in the guise of a beautiful man and drank the blood of the dead. Only the most dangerous apparitions, those that preceded plague, war, and upheaval, participated in such deception. In his studies as a young acolyte, his mentor had warned him that the most dire of specters would appear as charming, seductive beings who lulled those around them into complacency by virtue of their beauty and webs of lies. But his tongue was stilled by the finger that rested cold and gentle against his mouth.

"My name is Khaldun. I come from an ancient and noble land called Egypt, far, far to the east. There was a time when I was not so unlike you, but I have walked the world for over a thousand years," Khaldun said in honeyed, round tones. Russell could feel himself falling under the spell of the creature. He wanted to be away, but he did not think that even if his limbs would obey the demands of his higher mind that he would be able to tear himself away from the way that Khaldun's words were beginning to play like music in his mind, dulling his fears and enrapturing his senses.

"A thousand years?" Russell asked, the words tumbling sluggishly from his mouth.

He tried to wrap his hazy mind around the number. Enarees were taught the higher numbers in their education, but the need to use them was rare. It was more a formal exercise in greater mathematics. Khaldun's finger continued its achingly slow progress from his mouth down his throat. Inexplicably, Russell could feel the first stirrings of pleasure as his nerves came alive where the creature touched him. He licked his lips and his mouth was filled with the sharp, metallic taste of blood.

"Yes, for a thousand years I have wandered in endless night, sustained only by death and blood. But, before that, I was high priest to a great pharaoh. My life was spent between this world and the next, an instrument of fate who held the power of life and death over an empire," Khaldun continued.

His hand rested over Russell's heart, which beat so rapidly he felt that it might take wing and fly from his chest. The proximity to the bold incarnation of death was intoxicating and terrifying. But he did not want to flee. The will to live his complex, lonely life left him as if it had never been.

"Are you happy in this life, Raven?" Khaldun asked softly.

Russell was taken aback. He briefly wondered if the creature could read his turn of mind by the way his heart pounded underneath its hand. Strangely, he found the thought more comforting than disturbing. The intimate way Khaldun spoke to him and the languid way his hand moved down Russell's throat to lie on his chest made him feel connected to the strange apparition. Perhaps, it was because he had spent his life amidst the spectral realm, balancing precariously between life and death; or, perhaps it was because he had never believed it possible that he would be touched by a creature who was so utterly desirable Russell did not know how to answer the question.

The life he had was all he had ever known. His people, his calling were all that life had ever held. There were his accomplishments, the standing he had attained, his pride, but happiness? It was not something he had even thought about since he was younger. But, as the years passed by and his peers took wives, sired children, and gained glory in battle, he found cold comfort in his meditations and his work. Even the rich fantasy life he had developed in his younger life had lost its allure, and the unfulfilled erotic dreams diminished to dust in the wake of the sanctions of celibacy.

After a moment of mutely pondering the question, Khaldun seemed to accept silence as his answer. His large hand, still wet with blood trailed further down along the length of Russell's body. Russell began to tremble as the cold fingers drifted down his lean abdomen, which had thickened with age, but was still spare and muscular. He became acutely aware of the fact that he was naked and being seduced by an unknown, but beautiful specter. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that it was wrong.

Enarees gave themselves wholly over to spiritual pursuits, celibacy was necessary to avoid the distracting influences of love, lust, and human attachments. He had willingly chosen to subvert his own identity to be a healer, a caretaker, and a guardian of his tribe. His mentor had warned him of the burden that continual loneliness would impose. It was inevitable that one day he would be tested. Now that he was faced with such a test, he realized that he did not care where this road would lead. He did not care that the weakness he had always suspected lay dormant in his soul was consuming his reason. Failure did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the stirring in his loins and his desire for Khaldun to keep talking as his hand trailed lower.

"What do your people call you, Raven?" Khaldun asked. His voice was as soft and warm as well-beaten felt. "Arpoxais," Russell gasped. ~EDITED~ Russell felt a fiery jolt course through his veins and suddenly every nerve in his body was alive, aware, and voraciously hungry for more. The corners of Khaldun's mouth turned up in a lazy smile. He knew he had Russell fully bound under his seductive spell.

"And this name, Arpoxais, what does it mean among your people?" he asked calmly as if inquiring about a matter no more significant than the state of the weather. ~EDITED~

"Arpoxais was one of the three sons of Targitaus, the divine founder of all the Scyth," Russell recited haltingly. The familiar words sounded as though someone else spoke them. His mind was coming undone in the wake of the immense pressure of breaking the strictest of taboos and being unable to stop himself.

"A noble name. Your father must have expected great things from you," Khaldun replied.

He gently nibbled Russell's ear and Russell would have been able to feel his breath against his neck, but he felt nothing, only cold lips teasing him to further heights of pleasure. ~EDITED~ The pulsing intensity enflamed Russell's senses to the point where time and thought collapsed into a whirling tempest of sensation.

"Khaldun was the name bestowed upon me by my maker," he continued. "I have no memory of my human family. I was taken from them and put into the service of the pharaoh when I was very young. Whatever my name was, whatever I accomplished in my human life was swallowed by the sands aeons ago. My maker chose a name to remind me of what I am. Immortal. An agent of death who lives outside of death. He chose me because I already lived between my own world and the next, mediating the forces of life and death. I served my people, but lived above and apart from them. Just...like...you."

The last words, and the implication they held overwhelmed Russell. The knowledge of his transgression, the incandescent rapture that engulfed him, and the strange foreboding of what Khaldun could be hinting at threatened to shake his sanity apart. ~EDITED~

Russell collapsed against Khaldun's chest, which was cold and hard as stone. A sense of dizzy lethargy overcame him and his knees were unable to support his weight. Nearly unconscious, he would have fallen to the ground had not Khaldun picked him up and held his limp form close to his chest.

Russell could feel himself being carried and laid to rest on his narrow pallet. Sleep hovered near, threatening to bear him away on winged feet. Time enough on the morrow to wake and know himself to be an apostate. He was lost to all he had struggled to become, but even that thought seemed far away, like it was a thing of little significance. His lids hovered low and heavy over his hazel eyes and Khaldun's image swam before his tired eyes. Russell could think of no more beautiful image to gaze upon before sleep claimed him.

Suddenly, he remembered the work he had left unfinished. Tomorrow morning, slaves would begin packing the wagons and he would not be able to hide the obvious dereliction of his duties. But, even as he commanded his body to rise, he felt as immobile as one already dead.

"My work...the bodies...the embalming," Russell mumbled softly.

It was hopeless. He could not fight the riptide of exhaustion. He would be discovered. He would have to answer to Ishpakai. There was no way he could explain what had detained him and jeopardized the funeral without exposing the true risk that threatened himself and the tribe.

"Sleep now, Raven," Khaldun whispered. His cool touch drifted from Russell's forehead over his eyes. "Do not trouble yourself with these earthly cares. You are mine now."

Russell felt a slight chill of foreboding coupled with a sense of doomed acceptance. He lay at the mercy of forces too powerful to fight. The last thing he remembered before sleep stole in was the lingering, metallic taste of blood.

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Reflection

Russell awoke with a start. His hands were sweating and his head was pounding. He felt disoriented, unsure of whether he was actually awake or whether he had awoken from a dream within a dream. Closing his eyes, he tried to shake the eerie feeling of unreality that afflicted him. Then, just as he was beginning to drift off again, his mind became aware of the familiar sounds of the camp stirring to life outside the heavy felt walls of his yurt.

His mind slammed back into reality. He hurriedly threw off the comfort of his warm blanket and, realizing that he still wore his boots, he rummaged around to find clothes. A disheveled Russell burst out of his yurt into the early morning light. Quickly, he made his way to the yurt where the bodies were being kept. He did not pause to take in the dewy softness of morning or the sight of a sky lit a delicate primrose that was slowly fading to blue.

His two slaves were just rousing from their bedrolls as he came upon the yurt. Looks of astonishment registered on their faces when they saw their master emerge not from within the yurt they guarded, but from his own. Astonished, they quickly jumped to their feet and, keeping their eyes downcast, they made to follow him into the yurt. But Russell waved them off and entered alone. A deathly stillness hung in the air and the fire had gone out.

In the dim light, Russell set about the business of gathering tinder and beginning a new blaze. Once the fire was burning, he looked upon his surroundings with a profound sense of sadness. He had failed. Each warrior who lay still and lifeless upon a pallet was a silent judge condemning him for his weakness. These were his tribesmen, even in death they were as familiar and necessary as his own two hands.

He had broken a sacred trust and jeopardized their journey into the Afterworld. This great breach of duty should have been what weighed heaviest upon him. But, to his utter dismay and shame, he found what worried him the most was the nagging fear about the earthly consequences immediately looming before him.

In that moment, Russell felt that he was the most detestable of creatures. He did not feel worthy of being part of the Paralatae, much less being their enaree. Perhaps, he reflected darkly, he truly deserved the unexpected turn of fate that had brought him to these realizations.

Russell pressed his palms to the side of his head to block out thoughts that were running rampant through his mind like horses stampeding from a corral. He took a few deep breaths in an attempt to regain some measure of control. There was nothing he could do to reverse the course of events that had taken control of his life. The most important thing was to take measure of the present and try to move forward as best he could.

He opened his eyes and gazed at the fire. The flickering orange and blue flames captured and held his attention. The longer he stared at the blazing hearth, the more his troubled thoughts fell away and left him open to what was going on around him. The first thing that caught his attention was that there was no smell of decay. The light outside was gaining strength and it poured through the wide smoke hole, subtly illuminating the dim interior of the yurt.

Russell shook loose from the inertia that claimed him in the wake of his sudden state of panic. The bodies left untended should be mouldering and falling into corruption. It made no sense that his neglect would not be immediately apparent within the walls of the yurt and maybe even from without the shelter. His muscles were cramped from hunger and exhaustion. Each tendon and muscle sang eloquently in protest as he rose from where he squatted before the fire.

The camp was coming to life outside the thick walls of his yurt. He heard one of the camp dogs barking. A loud curse from a nearby warrior followed by a loud, high-pitched yelp from the animal was a potent reminder of what happened to those who forgot their place. Russell took it as a sign that time was running short.

He threw the blanket off the body lying closest to him and stood amazed at the sight that met him. Instead of a putrefying corpse, the body had been expertly and elegantly prepared for its journey to the Afterworld. He knelt down and examined the incisions, straight and true, which betrayed an unerring steadiness of hand. Likewise, the tiny sinew stitches were delicate and precise.

It was the same with all the bodies. Each one had been attended to by a skilled and practiced healer. But, even as Russell exhaled a cautious sigh of relief, a dark foreboding clouded his mind. There was none other than himself among the Paralatae who could have embalmed the bodies. And his skills would have been soundly tested in order to produce the quality of work that was evident before his learned gaze.

Russell knew the truth in the cold chill that crept up his spine and sent a shiver through his exposed chest and arms. It must have been Khaldun. The realization embodied a torrent of mortal fears. A monster had interfered with one of the most sacred duties of an enaree. Russell felt himself engulfed in a cascade of guilt. His acquiescence to the seductive powers of the dread specter had not only failed to diminish the threat to himself and the tribe, but had also imperiled the souls of those who hovered in the indeterminate space between the two planes of existence.

Russell knew he was damned. It did not matter whether or not his macabre transgressions were ever discovered by the living because the dead would know. Perhaps it would be just for him to be tied to a pyre and consumed in a raging tempest of blue flames and scorched flesh, he mused. But, what then would become of his soul? His ashes would be scattered into oblivion by the prevailing winds, but would his disembodied spirit also cease to exist?

Without a proper funeral to prepare his soul for the Afterworld, and with his mortal coil destroyed, would he just wander endlessly? Perhaps that was the true nature of the pernicious spirits that he had been trained to guard against. It was a ghastly notion and Russell hugged his arms around himself to ward off the wretched shuddering that racked his body. These were questions that were studiously avoided even by his own mentor. He had never dared to allow such questions full observation, but now he had no choice.

Russell had become accustomed to the isolated nature of his existence, but now he yearned for someone to confide his troubles to. It was too heavy a burden to shoulder alone. The problems he faced were so damning and all-consuming he could barely stand his own company. He just wished to be free of it all. Perhaps death was the answer, he thought. He could see no other way out. But, even death only seemed a continuation of the eternal damnation he faced. There truly was no way out, he realized mournfully. Whatever he had done or not done that had brought this maelstorm down upon his head had left him alone and his soul in irredeemable peril. Even if he was found out, no earthly conflagration could cleanse his spirit.

There was a rustling at the other end of the tent and Russell turned his head quickly towards the noise. His grey-haired Medean slave ducked through the tent flap, head bowed and shuffling. Russell was annoyed at the disturbance, but also grateful for the presence of another living soul. He was spending too much time in the company of the dead. His mind was full of dark, forbidding corridors where no light could penetrate.

Russell shot her a baleful glance and she cringed. Keeping her head bowed, ever mindful of the turbulent nature of her master's fiercely shifting moods, she waited for him to speak.

"Urgimas, what is the meaning of this?" Russell asked. His voice carried all the chill of the deep northerly winds, his expression was a storm playing across his features.

"Master. We leave," she replied in halting, broken Scyth.

"Go," Russell said quietly, turning away.

Puzzled, Urgimas chose to leave the tent rather than risk the wrath of her master. Silently, she exited the tent on trembling legs. There was something wrong in the yurt and it was beyond her to name it. She was accustomed her master's brusque silences and brutal admonitions, but there was an eerie disquiet about him that made her feel ill at ease. But, she knew that her life was not hers to choose. It had not been so since she was a young girl who had been taken as a slave by a Scyth raiding party.

For a time, she was passed from warrior to warrior, secretly taking herbs she scavenged to prevent a pregnancy, and quietly wishing for an end to her loathsome existence. Eventually, the warriors tired of her and she was passed off to Russell's predecessor, Tanais. Life as his slave was infinitely more bearable. He was a stoic, but kind man, very unlike his hot-headed acolyte. Still, Russell's savage temperament never erupted into physical violence and she thanked the gods for her lucky position. Once outside the stifling confines of the yurt, Urgimas settled down next to the withered old man who was her mate, and prepared to wait.

Wrested from the purple haze of his thoughts, Russell checked the large earthen jugs where he kept his supply of bituminous herbs and salt. They were nearly empty. It was the final piece of evidence that he needed to confirm that the work was done. However the embalming had been completed, there were not even enough supplies left for him to start over. It was a ridiculous notion; there was not enough time to undo what had been done and begin again. The bodies would be buried as they were and he would carry the secret to his grave, however near it might be.

Resigned, Russell stepped out from the yurt and shielded his eyes from the blazing autumn sunlight. His slaves looked up at him expectantly and he simply nodded at them before striding towards his own yurt. Once inside his home, he splashed water on his face and arms. It was a relief to participate in a normal routine and feel the whirlwind fall back into the periphery for a little while.

Russell sat down on his narrow pallet and tore the end off a stale loaf of crumbly bread. He took a hearty draw from his skin from kumiss and basked in the contentment of having a full stomach. After a few more bites, he could feel his eyes growing heavy. He laid back on his pallet, bread still in hand, and deciding that closing his eyes for a few moments would do no harm, proceeded to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Several hours later, Russell was awoken by a concerned Urgimas who was shaking his shoulder. He bolted upright, instinctively reaching for his dagger, and Urgimas jumped back in alarm. Quickly, she fell to her knees before her master's withdrawn blade and cried, "Master! Master! Forgive me! You no wake. We leave. We leave now!"

Russell's dazed mind took in her huddled form and the familiar surroundings of his home. He sheathed his dagger and composed himself as best he could while inwardly cursing his carelessness. If he could not regain control of himself, word would surely spread of his erratic behavior and hard questions would follow.

Russell tapped Urgimas lightly on shoulder, and when she looked up, he nodded once and gave her a kind smile. As he left his home, he hoped that the small gesture would mollify the fear he saw brimming in her brown eyes. She had been a good servant to him and his mentor before him. And while he regarded a small dose of reverent fear a desirable quality in his slaves, he did not wish for her to live in terror.

Shaking his head, Russell pushed his thoughts about Urgimas to the back of his mind. Ruminating on the feelings of a slave was a ridiculous distraction. He hated feeling as though he was everywhere all at once and yet nowhere at the same time.

"Arpoxais!"

Russell turned quickly at the sound of his name to see who had heralded him. Scylas strode through the quickly emptying campsite like a young god, strong, confident, a vision of health and vigor.

"How goes it with you?" Scylas asked as he ran a hand through his tousled brown hair.

"I am well," Russell lied smoothly. He could no longer look at the handsome young warrior without comparing his rugged good looks to the unearthly beauty Khaldun possessed. In that moment, he was grateful that the sun was behind him to hide the color rising in his cheeks. Whether from Scylas's nearness or the memory of Khaldun's touch, Russell could feel himself stirring underneath his loose felt pants.

"And the burial preparations?" Scylas pressed.

"Tell Ishpakai that all is in order," Russell replied.

Scylas nodded once and turned on his heel to return with the news to Ishpakai. Russell was relieved that Scylas had not questioned him further. There was a time when even a brief conversation with Scylas would have brightened the rest of his day. But that was before the advent of Khaldun. Now, he was having too much trouble keeping his thoughts straight. Even as he suffered in isolation, the lack of control he felt over his physical and mental being in the company of others was intolerable.

Alone again, Russell chanced to marvel at the efficiency with which his people moved. The land that had hosted a thriving village the day before was now restored to one of a thousand low hills among the rolling yellow grass of the steppes. The only sign of the dramas that had played out during their stay were the blackened pits that pockmarked the terrain where fires had burned giving warmth and comfort during the cold, starlit nights.

In that moment, Russell felt a wave of foreboding crash over him. Somehow, he knew that he would never see this place again. He was saying goodbye not for a season, but for forever. It was a ridiculous thought. The seasonal migration of his tribe to this small piece of land nestled amidst the endless plains of the steppes was as predictable as the changing of the leaves. The only reason for him not to return would be if he died in the intervening time. And while his own death had increasingly become the focus of his thoughts, it was by no means certain. There was still a chance that once they left, the eidolon who haunted him would be left behind too. After all, there were no more dead bodies for Khaldun to feed on. Perhaps, Russell mused, after the burial, Death would once again make room for life.

In order to keep his ruse viable, Russell climbed into the wagon that had been set aside for the remains of the fallen; ostensibly, his reason for such an action was to continue his preparations  
for the funeral, but instead he fell asleep, nestled awkwardly amongst the stiff limbs and urns as the wagon began to creak forward.

Oblivious to the rhythmic turning of wooden spoked wheels and the steady cadence of hooves beating hard earth, Russell found himself on a long forgotten seashore. In his dream, ravens swooped and careened overhead as the ocean churned with blue-grey waves that fell back in on themselves at the edges of a violent whirlpool. The soft, wet clay sand sucked at his feet threatening to entomb him forever.

"Let us go," said a familiar, calm voice, "Charybdis is roiling."

Russell looked over his shoulder and saw his aged mentor, Tanais.

"Master, how are we to escape this danger?" Russell asked. Already, the sand had claimed his calves and he could feel himself sinking deeper with each moment that passed. The air was tainted with the hard, metallic smell of death, and Russell fought the urge to gag at the sight of disembodied limbs swirling about in the froth of the unnatural tide.

"Death finds us all," Tanais replied. Russell struggled to hear his low voice over the howling wind that blew with the primal fury of the gods. "Arpoxais," Tanais continued, unperturbed by the impending storm. "You have always walked too close to the narrow border between us and the Afterworld. You rush towards Death when others would proceed cautiously. Now, Death hunts you."

"Will you leave me here, Master? Will you leave me to face my doom alone?" Russell cried. His initial elation at seeing Tanais drained away from him and despair seeped into the hollow place that hope had briefly occupied.

"No, my child, I shall not abandon you. Take my hand. I will help you one last time," Tanais said. He extended his hand and Russell gripped it tightly in both of his. His master's aged skin felt like parchment in his grip, but the wiry strength remained. Russell felt himself pulled from the grip of the sucking clay and found his feet set onto wooden planks.

Looking around, he realized he was no longer on the grey sand beach with its threatening tide, but was beside his master along a busy thoroughfare.

"Olbia," he whispered.

"Yes, where else?" Tanais replied, his blue eyes twinkled merrily from beneath the folds of his heavy lids and deep set wrinkles. "Do you remember when I brought you here before?"

Russell quietly surveyed his surroundings for a moment. Yes, of course, how could he forget? The landscape of his dream had been preserved to the smallest scale, in perfect infinite minutiae, even though it had been confined for years to the deep recesses of his memory. It was all there - the heavily traversed muddy thoroughfare with its press of caravans of merchants, carts, horses, and people. Russell had never seen so many humans crowded into such a small place. It was unnatural, claustrophobic.

There were also the rough-hewn, permanent wooden structures of businesses and residences. People were not meant to live in cages. And square cages at that! Did they have no sense, these strange, cloistered people? Did they not know that evil hid in corners? Dwellings were meant to be round and mobile, not voluntary prisons. The stench was overwhelming. The combined odors of manure, vomit, raw sewage, smoke, and decay assailed his senses and made it difficult to breathe.

"Yes, Master," Russell replied. They had come to procure medicines after a bloody battle with the neighboring Cimmerians. The losses had been severe and had left their stocks depleted. It was autumn and no merchants would dare the trek through their lands until the following spring. As they walked, a man's body was ejected from the open door of a tavern to fall before their feet. A string of angry curses in a foreign tongue followed and the man proceeded to vomit onto the rotted wooden sidewalk planks before falling into an unconscious stupor.

Drunk! Russell thought as they sidestepped the broken heap. In the middle of the day! And content to lay in his own refuse like a cur! These people lived like beasts, herded into pens like cattle. Russell felt claustrophobic from the permanent walls hemming them in. There was no free movement of air or sunlight. Men were not meant to live this way, he thought.

On the other hand, Tanais seemed completely unfazed by the utter corruption of mind and body so abundantly apparent in their surroundings. He walked with his head held high and a slight smile played on his lips. In silence, they navigated the labyrinth of narrow streets and blind alleys that served as the arteries for commerce in Olbia.

Finally, Tanais halted in front of a unmarked heavy wood door set into a stone building with small, dark windows set into its austere facade like sightless eyes. Russell had no desire to enter the dwelling. The shadows seemed to deepen and swirl around its base furthering the sense that this building was different from its fellows. This was the abode of a nameless evil.

"Master, let us leave this place," Russell pleaded, feeling more apprehensive with each passing moment.

"But, Arpoxais, this place is the reason we have come," Tanais replied, unperturbed.

Perhaps it was just his overall dislike for Olbia that was getting the better of him, Russell reasoned. If Tanais, who was wise and perceptive beyond all measure, found no fault, then it was difficult for Russell to justify his unease.

Seemingly of its own accord, the door opened and Russell gazed into the inscrutably dark, cavernous emptiness. There were no clues as to what awaited them within. The fragrance of fresh herbs wafting from the entrances of other shops was notably absent. Russell turned confused eyes towards Tanais, but his mentor made no move forward.

"Master?" Russell questioned, eager to be away from this forbidding place that occupied the heart of the evil town.

"You must go alone, Arpoxais. It is time for you to follow your own path," Tanais replied. His cheerful demeanor had vanished and a chill sadness had taken its place.

Russell was undecided. He did not want to enter the structure, especially since Tanais did not mean to accompany him. However, he had never disobeyed his mentor. The thought of doing so made his stomach clench with sickening anxiety.

"But why?" Russell pressed, stalling.

"This place is the first stop on your journey. You will enter an enaree, but when you exit, you will be enaree no more," Tanais said. He looked straight ahead and addressed the building as if Russell were no longer standing beside him.

"Master, what do you mean 'no longer an enaree'?" Russell asked plaintively. But Tanais stared stonily ahead and refused to answer. Russell contemplated the open doorway and the words of his master. It was an impossibility. There was not a way for one to become not an enaree once he had been initiated into the caste. An enaree could be killed, disgraced, or, on rare occassion, exiled, but one never lost his identity.

Russell saw no other choice but to enter the grim darkness. Without a look back, he walked through the doorway into the impenetrable blackness. Behind him, the door swung shut with a mighty boom. Russell nearly jumped out of his skin and even the floor beneath him seemed to reverberate with the shock. In that moment, he knew he was not alone. His senses failed him. He could not see, hear, or feel anything in the inky black. But he knew this was not a tomb, it was a test. A test that would set him free of the shackles of his former life and change the course of his destiny.

Suddenly, the room burst into view as hundreds of candles were set aflame. They decorated every ledge of the uneven stone slabs which composed the walls, low wooden tables, and most of the floor. Wax fell from brittle stalactites into pools on the cold floor. There was an eerie, timeless quality to the stillness that filled the room. He felt that he had wandered into a place where he should not be, a liminal space set upon the threshold between two realms.

A feeling of dread overwhelmed his senses. He had to get out of this grey stone room before he lost his place in the world entirely. Russell turned around and began clawing at the flat planes of the heavy oak door. But there was no handle; nothing for him to gain purchase and flee this strange place.

"That door will not lead to the freedom you seek, Arpoxais."

Russell whirled around at the sound of the familiar, seductive voice. Before him stood Khaldun, astonishingly naked. Russell's eyes widened at the spectacle of physical perfection that stood before him. Then, remembering himself, he had a hard time deciding where to rest his eyes. All he wanted was to drink in the image like a fine, rare vintage of Greek wine, but he did not wish to gawk. His eyes darted to the slowly burning candles, the jagged clefts of the stone walls, and finally came to rest on his own warmly booted feet.

"What freedom? There is no freedom in this world. There is only honor and duty. And since you came into my world, I have lost both. I am nothing now," Russell stated. He almost could not believe that the words were his own. What was this impulse he had to anger Khaldun to a point beyond reckoning? Perhaps, Russell realized, it was that he could not deny the fact that he was dead already and drawing out the inevitable was in itself a special brand of torture.

Khaldun laughed. It was a deep and rich sound that filled the room. Even the candles seemed to burn brighter in their losing war against the shroud of darkness.

"A worthy question, Raven," Khaldun said. "Of course, there is no such thing in the absolute sense. Even immortality is its own kind of prison, yet some types of bondage are preferable to others. Do you know what I am talking about?"

"No," Russell replied. He continued to study his feet and watched the ebb and flow of the dark shadows that seemed to swallow whole the cold grey stones upon which he stood. He could not seem to get his bearings in this strange place. He had no sense of its dimension other than that it was an odious square. One moment it felt to him that it was a small shop such as what would be populated by a butcher or baker. Then, in the next moment, he felt that it might go on and on like some confounding eternity.

"We are all of us beholden to some master or some whim of fate that has made us who we are. There is no escaping that reality. The more powerful you may seem to be to others, the greater those constraints may be. Even those of us who are immortal are bound by an irredeemable bloodlust that never diminishes. It is the only constant that endures through aeons of time," Khaldun spoke in a gentle voice, full of wistful longing that Russell could detect, but he could not begin to guess where the origins of it may lay. Then, after a brief pause, Khaldun asked, "Who brought you to this door? To this next leg in the journey of your soul?"

"My master," Russell replied, still gazing dutifully at his feet. The cold was beginning to seep in through the pounded leather and the fur lining. Soon, he would begin to feel the effects of the freezing from the inside out.

"And who is this master? Your father? A teacher?" Khaldun asked. Russell could detect a note of sarcasm in the rich timbre of his voice.

"Tanais, Master Enaree of the Paralatae," Russell answered, feeling defensive.

"Hmm...And what of your father, Raven?" Khaldun pressed.

Russell scraped the toe of his boot across the rough stone. He had not thought of, much less spoken of, his father in many years.

"I was given over into Tanais's care when I was very young," Russell replied. He could not hide the bitterness in his voice.

"And this is not what you wanted?" Khaldun asked.

"I was never asked, nor would it have mattered," Russell answered curtly.

"You did not wish to be enaree?"

"My father wished above all to have his only son become a great warrior. To have his wife give birth to an enaree was an honor he did not wish for. We never spoke again after my training began. He died some years later in battle. I buried him and, with him, I buried the past," Russell stated in a terse voice. It was all he had to say. All he would ever again speak on that subject.

"I understand, Raven. It is not such an uncommon tale when one has walked the earth as long as I. We will not speak of it again," Khaldun said. He paused for a moment and the silence hung heavy between them. "Why will you not look at me, Raven?" Khaldun asked. Russell could sense him moving closer, although he stayed just without the periphery of Russell's vision.

"I cannot," Russell replied. While the rest of his body burned cold, the heat rose in his cheeks and he blushed furiously.

"Forget the past, Raven. The old rules no longer apply. You do well to honor them, but it is time to embrace change; and, with it, your true destiny. I am your master now and I command that you look at me when I speak to you," Khaldun stated in a voice that carried the authority of age beyond counting.

"And if I refuse?" Russell asked. He raised his head and stared defiantly into the wide brown eyes of the creature whose presence haunted every waking moment of his life. Even in dreams, he was powerless to escape. Now, his tormentor wished to assume the role of master and it was more than Russell could bear.

A bemused smile broke over Khaldun's mouth. It was obvious that he was not taking Russell seriously. But before he could utter another word, Khaldun grasped the back of his neck with one strong hand and captured Russell's mouth with his own. Russell raised his hands and tried to push Khaldun away. But it was like trying to push against the side of a mountain. While Khaldun looked human, his skin was as chill as an early morning frost and his muscles were as hard and strong as those of an ox.

Once again, every part of Russell's being screamed in protest against this blasphemy. #EDITED# Before he could stop himself, he was returning the kiss with a fervent ardor he had not known he possessed.

Suddenly, Khaldun broke off, leaving Russell gasping for air and hungry for more.

"Kneel." It was a command spoken soft as silk. And Russell had no willful desire to deny what had been asked. He fell to his knees, the cold, rough stones were banished from his physical memory even as the edges dug into his shins. He had often dreamed of such a moment, but his vague, peripheral fantasies were utterly eclipsed by the hard reality of his surrender. It was sweet and sad and terrifying.

But, somewhere within him the line between what had been his life and what it was to become had been crossed. There was no going back. Nothing existed outside the small, grey room. #EDITED#

Khaldun groaned and pressed his hands into Russell's thick chestnut hair. #EDITED# Everything was lost to the moment, but Russell had never felt as powerful as he did in the act of giving such pleasure to his new master. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered why he had wasted so many years yearning for sexual contact, but choosing to remain celibate. The act came so naturally, he performed it with such practiced ease, how could it be wrong? #EDITED#

#EDITED#Khaldun smiled down at him adoringly. In that moment, Russell realized that he was no longer enaree. He was willing to become whatever it was that Khaldun wanted him to be. There was no point in continuing to torture himself with anguished thoughts about the sacred brotherhood that had been the whole of his identity. It was no longer conjecture, it was fact; he had willingly broken his blood oath. Yet he still breathed, the ground had not opened up and swallowed him. Perhaps the gods would wait to boil the seas and hurl their thunderbolts; but, until then, Russell knew that he would follow Khaldun down whatever path he chose for them to follow.

Khaldun grasped Russell's shoulders and pulled him to his feet. No words passed between them, just the knowledge that they were now bound one to another. Russell could only pray he had done the right thing. As Khaldun bent his head towards Russell's neck, he briefly wondered if the argument that he really had no choice would mean anything if he found himself tied to a pyre awaiting the all-consuming flames of earthly judgment.

Then, a small clicking sound snapped his mind back to the present. But before he had time to wonder at its import, he felt Khaldun's fangs pierce the throbbing artery in his neck. The pain overwhelmed his senses. In the span of a single heartbeat, all pleasure was forgotten and there was only blinding agony. His thoughts turned crimson, an immolation that threatened to burn up his mind. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound issued forth.

He had not thought the end would come so swiftly, but as his blood gushed into Khaldun's mouth, the pain began to abate. A delicious numbness swept over his limbs and he felt himself go limp in the vampire's crushing embrace. And so it ends, he thought, almost grateful that his torment was almost over. But there was regret too. He had been coerced into breaking the constraints of celibacy and he hungered to experience even more. Such a sacrifice, the imperiling of his immortal soul, for just a few moments of carnal delight.

Then, just as he was sinking into a weightless oblivion, the wagon in which he slept lurched violently. The cold, dead hand of one of the corpses who were his traveling companions fell across his face. Russell shoved himself upright and out of reach of the cadavers. It had all been a dream, but of such a visceral nature that reality seemed to pale in comparison. He grabbed at his neck, but there were no puncture wounds, just a dull ache. He was not certain whether he was relieved or disappointed to be safely returned to his life.

Pulling aside the heavy felt that covered the wagon, he saw twilight falling in its myriad shades of pastels. Night would come soon and surely his eidolon would accompany it only to find him already in the company of the dead.

To Be Continued...


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Ataraxia

The night came and went, but Khaldun did not appear. The sun rose and set and then rose again, but still no visits. Russell began to wonder if he really had dreamed the whole episode. He knew that exhaustion and despair were a powerfully dangerous combination that could easily drive a man mad. Maybe that was all it was, he thought. A brief descent into madness. The idea brought some small, cold comfort.

In the light of day, the distance between him and his terrifying experiences grew with every turn of the wooden wheels underneath him. But the nights brought a terrible foreboding that maybe insanity was growing within him like an incurable disease. Russell found himself sleeping during the day and keeping vigil at night, waiting and wondering. When he broke from the numb apathy of listening to the wheels turn beneath him and fell into one of his deeply contemplative states, he was distressed to discover that part of him longed for Khaldun and his mysterious promises of a new life set apart from earthly cares.

At the same time, the thought of leaving his people and the only life he had ever known scared him; even though the costs incurred by his responsibilities had inevitably led to deep-seated resentment. After all, was it not the heavy burden of his current incarnation that had sent him spiraling into such a deep fit of madness that he had conjured such a palpable waking dream? Confined as he was among the dead while his fellows travelled with their families, it was impossible to know the truth of what he had experienced.

Russell peered out from beneath the heavy felt that covered the back of the wagon in which he rode. The sun was setting and the sky mourned the passing of another day with layers of pink and orange, red and violet that collapsed into darkness just below the horizon. Off in the distance, illuminated by the pale glow of twilight, Russell could make out a series of large hills rising like monoliths above the endless expanse of rolling grassland. But he knew better, they were not hills at all, but kurhans. The caravan was quickly approaching the city of the dead.

Russell let the flap of cloth slip from his fingers and sat heavily back in the small space he had secured for himself among the corpses. He cursed the cold winds that, even as he sat pondering, gained strength from beyond the meager protection of the wagon. The nights were rapidly becoming colder. Without the protection of his yurt, his bones ached from the unforgiving cold and his muscles were more cramped every time he awoke.

Gods above, he knew he would be grateful when this unnatural confinement was at its end and he could once again enjoy the warmth and comfort of his own yurt. For days, the only task that had occupied his hands and mind was applying wax to bodies that were stacked one on top of the other. Moving the dead was a difficult task, although the bodies had been made lighter with their vital organs removed. Russell knew he would need to inter many clay jars with the bodies. Unbeknownst to the rest of the tribe, they would be filled with dirt instead of remains. He made a mental note to gather the necessary soil once they had stopped and the camp was settled.

Another sacrilege, he thought, but the ones he had committed were already becoming too numerous to count. It haunted him; the notion of Khaldun only being a surreal nightmare. A phantasm of borne of madness was harder to accept when he pondered the missing organs. If Khaldun was not real, what had happened to the organs from his fallen tribesmen? A sudden chill overtook him. If he could not remember the embalming process, what else might he have done and then blocked from memory?

Now there were no tasks left to occupy him. There was only the unending turn of the wheels beneath him and the sense that something big was just over the horizon. This would not be just another burial, like the dozens he had overseen during the course of his life. A silent voice whispered that this trip to the city of the dead would leave his life irredeemably altered.

It was then that he wished that he had kept his sacred totemic objects with him. If only he were able to dive into a trance to unravel the haunting questions about the recent past and the near future. But those items were stored, along with all his other worldly goods, in the wagon in which his slaves rode. There was nothing for it. He would have to wait until the next night to be settled into his yurt and free to do as he wished.

Russell stretched his legs out as best he could in the cramped space. He was tired of dreaming and then waking among corpses. It was not healthy, but he would have to maintain the ruse until they reached their destination. As he dozed off, his mind drifted to warm summer days spent gathering herbs. He could almost feel the gentle breeze that danced through the tall summer grass. Not too far from where he was crouched, examining a small blue flower, a small stream ran, bringing life to the endless grassland.

Russell picked the flower and put it in his leather satchel. He was unsure of its medicinal import and wanted to bring it to Tanais. A few paces off, his horse, a strong, painted red gelding, stood patiently grazing. Russell clucked his tongue and the finely trained animal pricked its ears forward and came to stand by his side.

"Good boy, Oetosyrus," Russell whispered into the paint's ear. The horse nickered softly in response. In the next moment, Russell mounted the animal in one fluid movement. He may not have been as fine a horseman as most of the warriors in his tribe, but his life had been spent amongst horses and his skills still surpassed those of the finest cavalrymen that most nations could muster. With a click of his tongue, the two set off in search of the stream.  
There was no reason for their small adventure; just the absolute freedom to spend an aimless afternoon chasing refreshment. Russell breathed in the warm, clean air and felt the powerful muscles of the horse bunch and extend beneath him. He was in the full flush of youth and the world seemed bigger and brighter than it ever would again.

The stream was in sight. He could almost taste the cool water. In that moment, he felt happy and at ease. It was a small memory, but as the years and cares accumulated, he would often remember that brief afternoon where he felt truly free and unencumbered. Russell smiled as he dreamed. An expression so long forgotten that it would have looked more like a grimace if anyone had been near enough to see.

The wheels stopped turning and Russell opened his bleary eyes. Gone was the sun-kissed valley of his youth and all that was left was the cold. Russell hugged the blanket closer and became aware of the clamor of slaves as they made camp. The grey pall that clouded his vision of the world began to settle in. Latent despair had become such a part of his identity that he had not paid it any mind for years. It was only the brief sojourn into the much happier perspective of youth that touched him and made him aware of how he had changed. Had he ever been so young and ignorant of the bleak despair that constituted reality? If he had, then he had been a fool. But a happy fool. For a moment, he chanced to wonder if that really was not a more desirable fate.

Eager to be free from his uncomfortable travel accommodations, Russell stumbled out of the wagon into the sunlight. He raised his hand to shield his light-starved eyes. It was early afternoon judging by the position of the sun. He kept the blanket wrapped tightly around him. It carried the faint metallic smell of death, but he could not forsake its warmth. Russell could not recall a time in his life that he had felt the cold so bitterly as he had over the past week. It was not even winter yet and that worried him. If he could not take the chill of autumn, he would surely freeze in the deep arctic blasts of winter.

The small camp was already beginning to take form under the shadow of the great kurhan. It was eerie to watch a settlement come to life as tents were erected and fire pits dug while the stuffed bodies of ancient warriors riding their skeletal horses kept vigil atop the great mound. Russell was grateful to see that his own slaves were busy about the task of putting up his own yurt and he looked forward to relaxing in the comfort of his home. A cool blast of wind came down from the small mountain and Russell shivered violently. He needed to get some real food in his system. The past few days of travel had found him subsisting on nothing but kumiss and the occasional bowl of gruel.

It was his own fault. He had forbidden his slaves from disturbing him while the tribe was traveling, but when the caravan stopped, he would often hear a soft rap on the side of the wagon. When he emerged to investigate, he found a bowl of cold gruel left on the ground next to the wagon. He knew that it was Urgimas who had transgressed in order that he might have enough to eat. And he could not very well punish her since he never saw her during the journey. Besides, the small gesture eased his trial, and proved to him how loyal a servant she really was. She would not break her ultimate vow to care for her master, even in light of a temporary order to the contrary. Besides, if not for those bowls of gruel, he was not sure that he would have survived the journey. As it was, he felt weak and delirious from hunger.

But Russell knew that he did not have all day to stand shivering out in the open. If he was going to escape the watchful eyes of his brethren, he must do it while everyone was occupied. He looked around and saw a horse tethered to one of the nearby wagons. It was a gelding the color of summer wheat grass. He did not recognize it as a favorite of any of the warriors.

Russell walked over and untied the horse. It nickered softly as he mounted it in one swift, fluid motion. Suddenly, he was seized with the impulse to dig his heels into the horse's sides and tear away from the encampment. He was hungry for the freedom he had felt in his dream. He wanted to feel that way again. Somewhere, far to the north, dwelled a people with whom he could shed his old identity and live among as a refugee, safe from persecution.

The Argippaei. It was said that they lived at the edge of the Scythian territories and had hair so blond that some claimed they were all bald. They lived peacefully, unlike the Androphagi, who ate the flesh of men and whose lands must be crossed in order to reach asylum. It was a seductive idea. Perhaps, among the Argippaei, he could finally lose himself, shed his shame, simply be a healer who was free to follow his heart's desires amidst a new people.

The muscles in his thighs tightened in readiness to press hard into the powerful flanks of his horse and gallop away as swiftly and silently as the wind. All that would be left of him would be the shadow of a memory. But something held him back and, as the horse continued to plod away from the camp, reality set in. Russell had no food, no water, no supplies of any kind. The journey was a long one. The terrain was still passable, but the winter snows were not far off. The winds were already beginning to howl at night bringing the bitter cold down from the far north.

But it was doubtful that he would even be given the chance to starve, Russell mused bitterly. Within hours of his disappearance, a party of warriors would be sent out after him. Skilled as he was on horseback, he knew he was no match for those men. It would be futile to try to outride them. Even attempts to cover his trail would bear no fruit. At the age of eleven, the warriors of his tribe were left out alone on the steppes and had to track their way back. Their minds were keen to the silent signs of passage unseen by others.

Russell sighed deeply as he dismounted the horse and felt his feet hit the hard, dry earth. Whatever his destiny may be, there was no escape. He was out of sight from the encampment and he knew his absence would soon be noted. Russell also knew that he should get on with his work quickly and return before a search party was sent, but he could not help the desire to linger. He wandered aimlessly for a few minutes taking in the stark beauty of the empty plain. It seemed as though he could gaze forever at the endless expanse of dull yellow grass that stretched to the horizon and beyond. It was like being at the crossroads of infinity with no differentiation in any direction, just dry, autumn grass and rolling hills.

But his back was turned to the great kurhan that rose up from the steppes like a giant monolith. When he turned and contemplated how the kurhan was all that broke the even, windswept plain, he was reminded of how death loomed over all his thoughts like a shadow that he might turn his back on for a short while, but was always with him nonetheless. Perhaps it was so for all men, Russell mused. He just happened to be more in touch with the vulnerability of mortality than most. Swords and shields were a great distraction, as were women and wine, but none could escape the inevitable. Yet most men ran from that truth their entire lives. Burying their minds and bodies in the easy temptations of the flesh or the rush of victory, but it all came to the same end. Maybe that knowledge, the comfort with these truths, more than his vows or sexual orientation, was what always set him so incongruously apart from his fellows. It had always been a heavy load to carry.

Russell took the felt blanket from around his shoulders and spread it on the ground. Then, with his hands, he began pulling up the parched earth and setting it on the blanket. When he had a sizable pile, he folded the blanket around the dirt and tied it up in a neat parcel. Swinging the bundle over his shoulder seemed to Russell to be the physical manifestation of his burdens. Secrets, knowledge, and unseen truths weighed him down just like the secret he now labored to conceal.

Russell whistled for his horse, which had been grazing peacefully nearby. The highly trained animal pricked up its ears to the sound and trotted to where he stood. He settled his burden across the horse's broad back before springing lightly up to mount the gelding. Without the protection of the blanket, he was already beginning to feel the effects of the cold. His teeth had started to chatter and he could not suppress the slight shivers that afflicted him. How could he have thought of escape? He snorted in derision at the foolishness of the notion. He could barely survive an hour outside of sheltering walls.

Russell pushed the horse faster towards camp than the slow pace he had enjoyed on his way out to the open steppes. The kurhan loomed larger as he approached the small line of tents. He exhaled in relief that he had not encountered anyone who had been sent to find him. As an enaree he was above questioning by anyone except the chief or other enarees, but it would have been awkward nonetheless.

The camp was still humming with activity when Russell rode back into the midst of all the preparations. No one seemed to take any notice of him or even the fact that he had been absent. The sun was riding low against the horizon and slaves were hustling about finishing the work of setting up the yurts. Camp fires had begun to spring up around the camp and Russell's mouth watered at the smell of food being cooked.

He quickly spied his own yurt. It had been set up directly adjacent to the splendid yurt of Ishpakai. Russell had the distinct impression that this placement was no accident. But, he was so eager to be back within the walls of his own home, he hardly cared. A few heads turned as he rode through the encampment, but no one paid him much attention. Nevertheless, Russell felt on guard. He just wanted to be inside the safety of his yurt and get the tied bundle out of sight.

The sun was beginning to set as Russell dismounted the horse. He was bone weary from the day's excursion and the bundle he carried felt so heavy it might as well have been filled with rocks rather than dirt. His attention was solely focused on the next movements of his shuffling feet and the weight he carried over his shoulder. His mind only vaguely registered the presence of others gathered around the blazing campfires and the incoherent buzz of conversation.

The few steps from his borrowed horse to the safety of his yurt seemed like the longest of his life. But, once inside, the familiar sight of his sleeping pallet, the low fire that already burned in preparation for his arrival, even his stained rug filled him with such a strong sense of relief it bordered on joy.

A bowl of meaty gruel had been left by the hearth and Russell fell upon it like a starving wolf. His hunger was so ravenous that he scooped the moistened horse meat and vegetables out of the bowl with his fingers. Then, hardly pausing to swallow, he drank every last drop of the hearty broth. When he had finished, he sat back on his heels, relishing the sensation of being in his own home with a full belly. For a moment, it even occurred to him to be grateful that he had slaves who were so attuned to his needs that they provided for him without getting in his way. Keeping slaves was a small and fundamental matter, like having enough air to breathe or a horse to ride, but Russell felt content enough to give thanks even for trivial blessings.

Not bothering to stand, he crawled to his pallet and pulled the familiar, warm felt blanket around himself. It was still early evening and Russell could hear the loud talk and large, crackling fires outside the walls of his yurt. Tonight would be a night of celebration. A festival of life before a grueling day of mourning broke the horizon on the morrow. The kumiss and wine would flow heavily throughout the night. Most of the warriors would exhaust their senses with drink, dancing, and rutting with slaves into the small hours. Sleep would be abandoned in favor of drunken revelry until they found themselves trudging in a dazed stupor through the funeral procession.

It was tradition but, on this night, Russell was thankful that his absence would hardly raise an eyebrow. Enarees were their own creatures and not bound by the same traditional code of behavior. He dreaded the day ahead and the gruesome tasks it would be his duty to perform. He did not want to think about it. But, for the moment, the siren call of sleep was too powerful to deny.

Russell closed his eyes and drifted to sleep. A small smile lit his face. He was safe in his own bed. There were no dead bodies threatening to fall and crush him under their weight as he slumbered. The monster who haunted him seemed to be safely confined to the barren steppes three days' hard journey from where he slept. That is, if it had ever existed at all. Perhaps, it had just been a cruel trick of the gods, a reminder to be humble and not over reach into the realm of spirits. Whatever had happened, he felt satisfied and his burdens seemed easier to carry in the wake of his redemption from madness and damnation.

To be continued...


End file.
